


stealing all the limelight

by belgard



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (again...the fantasy of it), (only the fantasy of it uwu), 1970's, Again, Anal Sex, Biting, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Hair-pulling, Lingerie, M/M, Makeup, Masturbation, Rough Sex, and it doesn't damage his masculinity at ALL, because he loves being himself!, he just likes to feel pretty even though he already is :(, im pretty sure y'all are sick of hearing that jsjjs soz, john is left all alone at the queen flat uwu :(, john loves dressing up and the like, john wears thigh-high stockings and garter belts !!, or rather the fantasy of it, so what is he gonna do ab it? wank ofc, the fantasy of it, there's a tag i want to put but it'd ruin it!, uwu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 12:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17508344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belgard/pseuds/belgard
Summary: john has a secret and an imaginative mind.





	stealing all the limelight

**Author's Note:**

> hi im back lol  
> this is another smut that i’ve got, even though it’s deaky-centric, and really, we need to give him a bright spotlight.  
> please leave a comment and kudos! x

 

 

 

John loves dressing up.

God, he _adores_ it. He knows he’s not all that good at putting makeup on or picking the perfect kind of outfits like Freddie does, he knows what he’s capable of doing is just enough for him to be satisfied about. He loves it, he feels like a more confident version of himself whenever he looks into the mirror, the reflection it projects giving him a slight thrill even though he’s looking right at himself. Call it narcissism, but he’s halfway convinced about the lack thereof.

Ever since living together with the others in this flat that’s just enough, he’s been a little more discreet about it. Well, he _has_ to keep it a secret, even though he’s sure they’ll be alright with it—it _is_ his business after all, and all the things that rile him up, that’s his matter, no one has ever had to meddle in it. He knows the other love clothing that are traditionally feminine, and they are comfortable with makeup, proven by the fact that they wear those things all the time whenever they’re on stage, performing to some poor fresh graduates that are still confused about their sexuality.

And then they go for the night to see a band with its frontman humping a broken mic stand with sharp winged eyeliner and black tight trousers, a camp bassist wearing satin and platform boots, an androgynous blond drummer who is just a _sight_ for sore eyes, and a hippie guitarist who loves frills and  eye shadow. Imagine the heart attack.

John secretly loves all the attention, even if they’re not particularly on _him_. He just loves how people watch the four of them on stage, and when someone lays their eyes on him, somehow he just knows. He vividly remembers how it felt, how his body reacted to it—he always bites down a smile at that, focusing on his bass instead because it does get a bit overwhelming, combined with the adrenaline and the feeling of satin on his skin.

But he’d never dare to go on stage wearing his _other_ clothes. Clothes that he only wears in his bedroom. Even though they’re not quite different from his stage clothing, they give off a different feel because he knows about the things he’s done with them on.

There’s no particular reason why this particular interest in him appeared—he just likes to do it because it makes him look pretty. And _feel_ pretty. Isn’t that just so nice?

John grabs for the little eye shadow palette on the drawer, before walking towards the knee-length mirror near his door. Freddie used to put eye shadow on his eyes before shows, and fortunately, he’s picked up on the tips and tricks that Freddie’s told him. He’d send the man flowers just to thank him.

He takes the little brush that comes with the palette and swipes at the mauve-brown shade at the edge, before he puts it lightly over the creases of eyelids to make his eyes look deeper and darker, just like Roger’s.

Roger.

Oh, he would _never_ tell Roger about this at all. Even if they’ve been dating for about five months now. He doesn’t know what Roger will think about it, and frankly, he’s scared to know. He doesn’t want to end this just yet, or make things awkward for the two of them when they’ve just started. He’s perfectly happy with how things are, even though there’s just something Roger has to know. Still, he feels like his feelings get hold of him from spilling his guts out, and he often thinks that’s for the better.

Roger has made him so, so happy. He’s the happiest he’s been in years now, and he could never be more glad. Roger spoils him more than anything, and he’s passionate in everything—in music and in sex, and John would be lying if he says he doesn’t enjoy the latter. Roger makes everything feel just perfect, even if John has to admit that his boyfriend is a little far _too_ gentle with him. John often tells him to quit being so fucking soft, but Roger always makes him feel like he’s floating at the end so there is nothing he should whine about. Although a corner of his mind wonders why – according to how aggressive Roger is on stage and in brawls – Roger has never once tries to take his anger or frustration out through sex.

Roger has always been so caring, all the time. He always caresses John’s face and ask him if there’s something wrong or if it’s good enough for him, even when it’s John who has got his face down the mattress or when it’s Roger that’s on his lap. Being with Roger is just anything he can ask for, he can admit that whole-heartedly.  

But there’s just this little... _something_ , that he wishes he has the heart to tell Roger about. God, he wants to tell him so bad, but he’s so fucking scared out of his mind.

(What does all of this proves, John asks himself. The answer is how good he is at keeping secrets.)

He takes the little tube of black eyeliner and opens the top, before walking even closer towards the mirror to see his eyes up closer, taking a deep breath before drawing a steady line over the area that marks the tip of his eyelashes, dragging it towards the end of his eyelids and making a soft wing that doesn’t look quite as lethal as Freddie’s, but still pretty enough for him to be proud of. He does the same to the other eye, feeling the corners of his lips pulling back into a satisfied smile as he leans back to look at himself.

He takes a little jar of light gold eye glitter and dips the tip of his pinky finger just slightly into the contents, before he puts some of them on his eyelids and on the inner corners of his eyes, just to brighten them up and make his eyes pop.

The way the sun is streaming through the windows and hitting the area where he’s standing on just right makes the glitter _shine_ and he’s so in love with how it looks.

The little compact blusher he has is actually a present that one of his friends from uni gave him because of how pale he looked back then, she said that this would ‘liven him up a little.’ John can testify to that.

He takes the little brush that comes with it and dips it lightly onto the pan, before swiping it across his cheeks and his nose. _There_.

Great.

He tilts his head a little to the side, and surely enough the glitter shines against the sun once again, making him smile.

John takes a little tube of lipstick and opens it, before rolling it up and swiping the rose-red shade onto the centre of his lips before using the tip of his finger to spread the colour out softly, making the entire look not harsh at all. He feels quite pleased by it—his lips look like they’ve been thoroughly kissed or bitten, and frankly, he thinks he suits the look.

Rolling his shoulders back, he lifts his chin up and takes a good look at himself in the mirror. His greenish-grey eyes look dark and confident, but the rest of him screams debauched innocence. He doesn’t know what came over him when he had the urge to do himself up, but the outcome makes him feel just right that he doesn’t think about it too much.

There is something strangely liberating by letting himself do all of these things. In a society so strict, he surely loves challenging it, even though he does it in private. He’s a little glad that the others feel the same as well, so he feels like he doesn’t need to feel scared, even when this is just a hobby and not how he presents himself in public. But a hobby _is_ a hobby, and there are downsides to everything. He feels like he has yet to encounter them, and he’s not really looking forward to.

He walks over to his wardrobe, feels his lips form a little frown before he takes out an oversized black jumper that goes down to his thighs, a pair of white thigh-high stockings and its garter belts, and a pair of black lace panties that he has nicked from one of his ex-girlfriends’ wardrobe the morning after. He changes into them, thinking that since Brian and Freddie are away at the pub and Roger needed to leave to do some errands, he might as well have his fun.

After pulling the last belt over his thigh, he walks towards the mirror and takes another look at himself. He tilts his head at his reflection, taunting it, almost, before he feels one of the corners of his lips tugging into a little coy smirk, one of his hands raised to twirl some strands of his long hair.

There it is. _Pretty_.

He runs his hand down his body, feeling a little thrill of excitement running in his blood, thrumming beneath his skin, when he  starts to pull up the hem of his jumper, seeing how the black lace stretches upon his pale skin. The only thing he can think about is what would happen if Roger is to find him like this, touching himself in lace and makeup. God, he’s scared to imagine the outcome, but at the same time he can’t help but to accept this feeling... that he wants Roger to just take him in all of his donned-up glory. What would even happen if Roger turns out to be into that?

 _Fuck_ , John feels a little shiver running down his body just at the thought of it.

What would happen if Roger runs his fingers over the lace, gripping on it with his hands, callused from playing the drums, he thinks to himself, feeling exhilirated at how he feels his toes curling up at that. Roger tugging onto the garter belt and snapping it against his skin as he fucks into him—god, that’d be fucking wonderful. John finds himself hooking a finger beneath the white strap and pulling it just enough, before he lets it go, letting it snap against his skin with just the right kind of sting.

God, he’s going mad.

He feels himself biting down on his bottom lip, suddenly hot all over at the thought of his lover alone.

If only Roger knows that he prefers to be treated a little more... roughly during  sex more than anything. Sometimes he _knows_ that what he’s doing is wrong, he knows that communication is key, and he knows he should tell Roger about it, but his fear gets in the way of everything and it pains him. Being seen as a blushing virgin when he’s in a group with two sexually active people with a reputation—that’s just the cost. John is always so determined to prove himself otherwise, but perhaps there’s something about the way he looks that just makes it unchangeable, no matter how low the neckline of his borrowed blouse is, no matter how tight the leather around his legs are, no matter how dark Freddie brushes the shadow across his lids.

He takes a deep breath, looking down once again at his reflection in the mirror, with his scarlet cheeks and lined eyes, darker than before.

His mind wanders, ending at the thought of his lover right there behind him, with his hands pressed on his waist as he noses his way on the crook of John’s shoulder. John feels his head tilt to the side, his ear almost touching his shoulder. Roger’s skin is always so soft against his, and his breath is always so warm next to his ear, making him feel little thrills running down his spine with the promise of _something_. God, he loves that.

Roger would stare into his eyes from the mirror, blue eyes a blazing fire instead of  his usual charming pair, warm and cool at the same time with the intent of making the person looking at him fall to their knees. John wouldn’t allow that, though.

Roger’s all _his_.

If he closes his eyes, he can just imagine the feeling of Roger’s silky blond tresses brushing against his shoulders, where it’s exposed right now by the way it’s slipping away from one shoulder because of how oversized the jumper is for him. Roger’s hair is always slightly tickly against his skin, but he loves it all too much. Grabbing on it, running his hands on the tresses before he _tugs_ just so, making Roger whine. It’s a thing for them both, hair-pulling, and even though John would indulge in that just a little further, with an ever more intense spark of pain, Roger would grab his hand  out of his tousled mop of hair and brings John’s hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles there softly with eyes that make his heart ache.

God, it frustrates John so, so much, but Roger makes it so, so _good_.

He just wishes Roger would just fuck him like he owns him.

He wishes Roger would just bite him until he leaves a mark, instead of nipping on his skin just on the point of reckless, before moving away and leaving innocent pecks onto the shell of his ear, his jaw, his collarbones. He wishes Roger would slap him before he caresses the reddening skin there, pressing down a kiss to soften the burn. He wishes Roger would grab his wrists and pin him down on the to bed instead of holding him oh-so-gently, as if he’s scared John’s going to fall. John wants to tell him that no, he won’t fall, as long as they’re with each other he won’t fall, and he won’t _ever_ let Roger fall.

John brings his hand up to the exposed column of his throat and pinches there, hard, until he makes himself jump, imagining it was Roger’s teeth. He feels his breath coming out shaky. This is embarrassing, he thinks to himself, but _fuck_ does he want to get off so badly.

When he looks down onto his groin from the mirror, he feels himself sighing, seeing his own cock straining behind the lace and the jumper. He tilts his head from side to side, smiling to himself when he hears it cracking. Perhaps some tension relief is necessary, he thinks.

He walks over to the bed, a little gentle swing in his steps that he’s sure will make his movements more graceful instead of awkward—he can’t be as graceful as Freddie, though, but he can try. And he’s happy with how he is.

When he bends over to get on the bed, he feels himself letting out a sigh, crawling over to the centre of it before he lowers the top half of his body down, until his head’s right on the mattress and his hips up in the air, imagining his lover’s hand between his shoulder-blades, brushing his long hair out of place and pressing his body down just crossing the line of gentle.

John feels the hem of his jumper fall a little bit upon his waist, until it ends just at the middle of where his panties are worn, feeling a little rush of air against his exposed thighs. He imagines Roger’s hand on them, kneading the flesh with just the kind of pressure that John craves.

He lets his hand travel down to one of his thighs and squeezes there, as hard as he can, feeling his teeth biting down on his bottom lip as he closes his eyes, smiling to himself.

 _Look at you_ , Roger’s voice comes to his mind as he presses his face deeper into the mattress. _You’re so fucking pretty._

“Rog..” John hears himself mumbling, frustrated until he’s on the brink of biting the soft surface beneath  him. His other hand travels to grip on the bedsheets, just near his face. “Fucking hell.”

Roger would run his hands up and down his thighs, as if soothing him. John wouldn’t need that, though, he needs Roger to hit him right there, until he leaves a bright red mark, lasting long enough for him to gaze at it in the morning. _How are you feeling, Deaks?_

John nods to himself, feeling the bedsheets beneath his face move along with him. _I feel alright._

He runs a hand down his erection, feeling himself shudder under his own touch, but in his mind it was Roger’s hand.

_What d’ you fancy, love?_

John curses to himself, before he makes a quick run towards the drawer across the bed to fetch a bottle of lube. If he could see himself, he’d laugh at the side of him just sprinting back to the bed, bending over and lowering his head into the mattress, arching his back just so.

He pops open the bottle and puts a _ton_ of it on his hands before he pushes a hand inside his panties and starts to rub himself a little harder, sloppier. God, the things he’d do to have Roger do this to him.

_You like that?_

John nods, biting down a moan when he brushes his thumb against the slit for one short second. He tries to control himself then, he tries to slow himself down, not wanting this to end so soon. Because if he were to do this with Roger, he’d want to last all night if he could.

He imagines the feeling of Roger’s hands all over him, all over his skin, his hair. Gripping on it— _god_. He wants Roger to grip on his hair and pull so hard that he can make John’s body move the way he wants to. He wants Roger to slap his thighs and make him cry, make him _ache_ for it.

John’s hand stills just before he can scream.

 _Enough of that._ Roger would run a hand through his hair and push it aside, before placing his hand down his neck and running it along the line of his shoulder, before gripping on it and pushing just oh-so-gently. _Can’t have you gone now, can’t I, Deaky?_

John feels his breath coming out ragged. “Please...”

 _Hm?_ Roger would ask him with that tantalising tone of his, the high-pitched yet attractively raspy voice going to work in riling him up in just the right way, just this time he imagines it’d have a darker undertone to it. Roger has always been too sweet to him, and John’s not quite for that right now. _Please...what, baby, give me a clue._

John bites down on his lip, before briefly pulling out the straps of his garter belt in a haste, sliding his knickers down until they’re completely off, just dangling on one of his ankles before he straps the garters back on, feeling impatient and far too greedy, more than anything. He wants Roger right here, on his bed, but if he’s thinking about the lengths he can’t do to have him the way John wants him to, he’d just make himself more pissed off and more, far more desperate.

From the stories and rumours he’s heard from a friend of a friend of a friend of Roger’s groupies, they’ve all said Roger is a really confident lover who likes to leave bruises on those girls’ skin, but he never thought that Roger would be too scared to do that to him. A hickey or two, Roger would give him, but he’d never cross a line that John thinks has always been nonexistent. John wishes he’d cross it, fucking take a leap over it,  if he’s to be honest.

Feeling his bare arse in the air with thigh-high stockings on, he starts to feel the deep thrum of mad arousal beneath his skin, and he can only think about how fucking filthy he must look like right now, thighs and cock smeared with lube, and no doubt, his makeup must be all over the place on his face, smudged beyond relief.

He _loves_ it.

 _How do you feel?_ Roger would ask him, because that’s all he does. Ask if he’s alright, if he’s feeling good, if he’s comfortable—and John adores that little habit he does. It just makes everything far more enjoyable for the two of them, always. Remembering his past escapades, none of them ever asks him anything, be it a bird or a bloke, they just seem to never care. _Am I hurting you?_

 _No,_ John would answer. _But I want you to._

John grips on his thighs once more, trailing just a teasing hand over his fully-erect cock, making his legs shake.

He imagines Roger bending over him to bite on the shell of his ear, making him shiver in the best way possible, driving him mad as he growls out, gripping the skin of his thighs possessively— _Nasty bitch._

“Fuck!” John can reach the end from that image alone. Roger would _never_ say that, but he wishes he would.

He pops the bottle of lube open once more, lathering a generous amount on his fingers before he takes some time to warm it up. He can’t be too hasty, he tells himself. But before he can realise it, he already has his finger prodding on his hole, leaving a little teasing touch just along his rim.

Because Roger would tease; just a little less cruel.

Feeling himself shake his head, John wastes no time at all in getting two of his fingers in at once. It stings, god it does, but the burn is so _good_. He’s a little relieved that he has gave him fingers much more lube than he used to because this is just pure impulsive behaviour. He scissors himself open, burying his face into the mattress as he feels his back arch instinctively. He scissors himself open in motions as wide as he can be, before sticking two more digits inside of himself, even though he’s not quite ready for it.

“God...” He hears how his voice sounds to his ears, halfway-muffled, deep and hoarse and desperate.

 _Can’t believe what I’m looking at_ , Roger would say, voice too far gone. _Who knew our little Deaky’s a dirty fucking whore?_

John pistons his fingers deeper in himself, using his thumb as a leverage. The burn feels absolutely delicious but he needs to find his prostate, and he needs to find it now, or he’s going to explode. He reaches for his cock, gripping onto the base with an amount of harshness that even surprises him. It hurts a little, but he soothes it down with a fluid stroke down the base, before feeling himself up to the tip, circling his fingers around it just enough, his thumb pressing on the bundle of nerves there.

He feels like the room is far too hot.

He pushes his four fingers in with a little more velocity now, picking up his face as he feels himself losing in it entirely, going far under like he’s going to drown anytime soon, the heat pulsing in his entire body, running in his blood madly. He reaches deeper as he pumps his cock faster, curling his fingers inside of himself, desperate for a release.

 _You feel so fucking great, baby,_ Roger would say. _A good little slut, that’s what you are._

John imagines Roger’s fingers right there, pushing the hem of his jumper up so can put his callused hands on his hips and holding him still so can drive inside him however he wants, how fast and how hard he wants it to be, so John wouldn’t push back, so John can’t do anything but to _take_ it.

God, he really is going mad, John thinks to himself. But there’s no shame in it, not at all. Not one blush of embarrassment or coyness that he knows he often displays, even though that’s just how he is.

 _Are you close, John?_ Roger would ask him. _Are you going to be a good boy for me and come?_

John doesn’t know what  to do, he doesn’t know if he wants to push back to his fingers or push forward to fuck into his fist even faster. He curls his fingers inside of himself and bites down his moans, even though he can hear them spilling out. In the end, he gives up, he lets his mouth fall open, hearing his moans loud and clear as he closes his eyes shut.

He can hear the way his lube-coated fingers are driving into his body, and imagines that it’s Roger. He knows how much of a good shag his boyfriend is, and if only Roger would do something like this to him, god, John would just die.

He imagines Roger pushing himself deeper, yet still trying to find that little blunt spot inside of John that can make him see stars. John curls his fingers and angles them just so, before he feels a jolt down his legs, and he arches his back even more, his toes curling against the bedsheets.

“Fuck!” John’s eyes roll to the back of his head behind his lids, quickening the pace of his fist now that he already finds the spot. “Oh, _fuck_ , Rog...”

 _Ah_. Roger would say with a sweet smile even in the midst of all this, because he’s a little shit. _There it is._

“Rog!” John hears himself scream, and he doesn’t even care if anyone hears him at this point, he feels his his body is far too hot, like the air is suffocating him and he can’t do anything about it. He feels it, he knows he’s gone. His heart is beating so fast and he feels like he’s going to pass out. “A— _ah_ , fucking hell, please!”

He imagines Roger’s grip on his hips tightening, making John take it just harder like he wants it to be, just fast enough to drive him mad and lose it.

John pumps himself with much more vervour, squeezing his cock just hard enough with one hand as he tries to rub his prostate with his fingers as fast as he can with the other.

“Yesyesyesyesyes— _yes,_ ” John babbles, hearing himself mewling under his own touches. “Roger, please...”

 _Please, what, Deaky?_ Roger would ask him. _You’re taking me so well, love._

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” John hears himself babbling all over again like a madman, feeling the pleasure pulsing beneath his skin, driving him mad in the most painful yet delicious way possible. He feels like he’s slowly heating up, reaching towards the end more and more every passing second. He grips on his cock just a little harder, until he hears himself shriek in pain.

 _You gonna come for me, John?_ Roger would ask him with his body leaning over his, his voice gravelly right next to his ear. He wants to hear it, god he’s crazy for it, he wants to hear it _so_ badly. He wants to feel Roger’s hands against him, pressing himself just right. He wants to feel Roger's blunt nails digging into him, as if he's aching for him as much as John is for him.   _Tell me_ — _fuck, aren’t you just so fucking good for me?_

He imagines Roger’s hand reaching to bury itself in his hair, pulling on it hard as he pounds into him. Oh, how that would feel...

“Roger, please, god,” he hears himself cry out, feeling so desperate for release he’s going to burst out in tears. He feels it burning inside of him, making his legs shake and his body moving back and forth on the bed until his knees ache beneath the layer of his stockings, trying to reach it.

He buries his face into the mattress, before turning just a bit because he feels suffocated to the point that he’s  gasping far too quickly for it to be normal.

“Oh, god,” he hears himself moan out. “Roger...”

 _Come on, then._ Roger’s voice would sound more raspy, because that’s how he always sounds like when he’s close. _Scream my name, go on._

John feels himself lilting, just on the verge of finishing yet he’s still so far from it. “Roger!” he screams out, his voice breaking just at the end of his lover’s name. He squirms on the bed, so eager to reach his release. “Oh my god, please, please, please...”

 _You sound so fucking good begging for me like that, Deaky_ , he imagines Roger groan out, voice just as on edge, just as desperate as he is. Roger always sounds like heaven when he’s whining, purring,  moaning out in that voice of his.   _Just_ gagging _for it, aren’t you, baby?_

“Yes, yes, ohmygod, please,” John hears himself babbling, too far gone in it, movements becoming erratic, toes curling to tight he might can’t even feel them anymore.

The things he’d do to hear his boyfriend’s ragged breathing next to his ear, fingers tight and taut, driving into him with absolutely no control at all—oh, how much John wants him to lose it and make this fantasy of his a vivid reality.

 _Deaky..._ Roger would call out for him, tipping over the edge just dangerously, driving him wild and making him ache for it. _John, I’m... I..._

John imagines his lover’s hand dropping itself right on his arse with a kind of brashness that he often notices when he’s with his drumkit, and when he’s in reckless brawls with pissy men. He wants to see Roger with that flame in his eyes, burning blue, and burning so _hot_ that John craves to touch even though he’s going to burn the tip of his finger. He wants to see Roger when he’s angry, when he’s feisty, when he’s bitchy—right here, on his bed, where Roger won’t leave him.

John wants to see Roger lose himself, letting himself burn in that fire he makes for himself.

God, what a _sight_ would that be...

Roger has always been gorgeous beyond anything else, but there’s something else about his eyes ablaze, his face flushed and his blond hair wild. There’s something so attractive about how he’s so brash with everyone else but so, so oddly _soft_ when he’s with John. It always makes John’s heart ache for him in the sweetest way, but he supposes the aggressiveness and the sheer boyish recklessness are some of the things that make Roger so charming and thrilling to be with.

John knows Roger would _never_ lay a hand on him, he knows he would never hurt him, bring harm to him in any way there is.

And that makes something inside of John just twist and go absolutely mad.

John can’t stop hearing how his moans sound like, bouncing off the walls in a lewd symphony that no one ever hears except of his blond lover, and he can feel it—his pulse is going wild, and he’s gasping for air, he can’t feel a thing other than pure pleasure and—

 _Fucking come on, John, love_ , he hears Roger say in his mind, voice tipping just towards the edge of mewling, but still keeping the raspy tone in it. Roger’s voice is a song that he’ll never get tired of hearing.   _Come for me, you fucking whore, come on, be a good boy for me._

Imagining the way Roger’s voice would sound like saying things that are so, so filthy make him shake, and he pounds into himself harder, pumps himself quicker until he’s about to explode from the blinding red heat that’s pulsing inside of him, making him dizzy.

“ _Ngh_ ,” John hears himself croaks out desperately, like he’s so, so far gone. He’s moaning far too loudly, he knows he is, but god, he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s crying for it, no doubt ruining his makeup.

The friction of his body against the mattress is absolutely delicious, and he just can’t get enough of the heat that’s surrounding the room, and he knows he’s about to reach the end, he knows it is. He’s drooling onto the sheets, but he doesn’t care, god, he’s so wild for it, and he imagines Roger is about to as well, going into him faster, harder, gripping on his hips much tighter to the point where it hurts.

He feels his movements becoming more frantic, more reckless, and then his toes curl in the tightest way, back arched tight as he bites down onto the bedsheets beneath his lips, trying hard but failing to muffle the sound of himself, shaking.

_Fuck, Deaky..._

He feels his eyes go the back of his head when he finally feels it, the release that he’s been longing for, and he feels himself convulsing, going rigid before he comes, shooting white strings all over the sheets as he keeps on pushing his fingers in until he’s whining from over-stimulation.

He feels his thighs twitching, mouth opened in a silent gasp as his head turns on the mattress, before finally letting go of his cock and getting his fingers out. It still makes him twitch in just the slightest way, but he’s far too content to care.

He lowers his hips down abruptly until he’s laying completely face-down on his bed, feeling himself smiling as his eyes slowly drop down, like curtains, as if to tell him that the show is over. He lets his finger roam over the bedsheets, wanting to laugh at how ridiculous this whole thing is. If only he had the bravery to tell his boyfriend how he _really_ want it, he wouldn’t have to do this in the first place.

If only he isn’t such a bloody coward, he’d get this over with and if he’s lucky, he’d find himself pinned down on his bed with the _real_ Roger, his own Roger—not just the one in his head.

If only.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Far too immersed in his bliss, John didn’t even notice Roger standing behind the door, staring at his lover through the small crack of the door that he has opened when he heard him moan out his name, thinking that he needed his help.

Far too immersed in his bliss, John didn’t even realise that Roger has been covering his surprised gasp with his hand, clear yet darkening blue eyes wide, his blood hot and thrumming beneath his skin, traveling south where his bulge is straining against his trousers. 

Far too immersed in his bliss, John didn’t even realise that Roger has been watching him the whole time.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> so the conclusion is that john is good @ getting himself off lol  
> thanks 4 reading lovies


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